


Folds and Paper

by Eligh



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Christmas Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, ambiguous timeline, smash-up of pretty much all the marvel properties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 09:13:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13143567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: Christmastime get-together fluff. With magic, because why not.





	Folds and Paper

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everybody- quick note before we get started here. This story was inspired by the book [The Paper Magician](https://www.amazon.com/Paper-Magician-Book-ebook/dp/B00HVF7OL0) by Charlie Holmberg. I liked her ideas of magic she presented in the series, so I ran with it. Basically, if you're a Magician in her books, you are trained at an academy and then Bonded to an element once your training is over. Everyone only gets one element, one bonding, and from that point on, cannot use any magic on other elements. It's a bit more complicated than that, but hey, I'd recommend you read the books! There're three in the series, and they are a quick, pleasant read. 
> 
> These are the magics she outlines:  
> Folder-paper  
> Smelter-metal  
> Pyre-fire  
> Siper-rubber  
> Gaffer-glass  
> Excisioner-blood  
> Polymaker-plastic
> 
> and I made up a few more.

The lights from the flashing cameras were near blinding, but that was nothing new to Phil—at least not since he’d stepped into the spotlight, as it were, that the public insisted upon shining bright onto every movement the Avengers made. 

 

He raised both hands to quell the crowd gathered for the first-of-the-month briefing and cleared his throat, his breath puffing steadily in the cold air, smiling as mildly as he knew how. In front of him, the three-dozen or so gathered reporters’ body heat had to be stifling, rising above the green in a wispy plume of humidity, and behind him, Tony and Steve had better both be looking appropriately friendly, or so help him he would kill them both in their sleep. 

 

Still, uncomfortable conditions would wait for no man. 

 

“Good evening, ladies and gentlem—”

 

“Is it true that you captured the Winter Soldier, Cap?” one reporter shouted, which, naturally, set the rest of them off again. 

“Where’s Bruce Banner? Is he being held by SHIELD?”   
“Is Vision nuclear powered?”   
“Do the Avengers condone hardened criminals in their ranks?”   
“Is Wanda Maximoff a Geonshan spy?”   
“Are Romanoff and Barton scr—dating?”   
“Do you know where Bucky is, Cap?”

 

“At least attempt a semblance of order, please,” Phil muttered, raising his hands again, and then leaned into the microphone, talking over the crowd and ignoring the general hubbub. Wasn’t his problem if they didn’t want to hear his statements. “Mister Banner is currently off-planet, accompanied by both Thor Odinson and Doctor Stephen Strange. Vision is not nuclear powered; he is neither radioactive nor a threat to anyone’s health. Mister Lang has served any time sentenced and is a reformed, upstanding member of society, not a criminal. Miss Maximoff has no ties or affiliations with Genosha, and is, in fact, not a mutant. And any of the Avengers’ personal lives are just that—personal. Now please, Captain Rogers and Mister Stark have—”

 

“C’mon Coulson,” someone at the back of the crowd yelled. “Let ‘em talk!” There were a few shouts of agreement, more uproar, and Phil set his jaw. He utterly despised these press conferences. They were—by far—the worst part of his job.

 

“Captain Rogers,” Phil tried again, and then took a steadying breath and raised his voice. “ **Captain Rogers is** —thank you, yes, please calm down. Captain Rogers is prepared to make a statement on both the whereabouts and wellbeing of Sergeant Barnes, but first, he and Mister Stark have prepared a joint statement addressing the Avengers’ Charity for the Homeless in this holiday season.. I’ll turn the floor over to—” and he waved exasperatedly at the two men, not even bothering to try to complete his sentence in the resulting din, and turned on his heel to leave. A layperson may say he stalked off the stage that had become a permanent fixture at the foot of Stark’s Tower, but Phillip Coulson did not stalk. He moved precisely as he meant to. 

 

“Not bad, boss,” came a voice from—literally—under the steps leading off the back of the stage. Phil paused and looked down; on the stage, Tony laughed loud and fake, and the cameras burst into frantic, clicking action once again. Phil glanced over his shoulder. No one was paying attention to him, obviously, but Steve’s eyes were the sort of round that meant he was either holding back from inflicting bodily harm upon Stark’s person or considering making their friendship something a bit more— _ ahem _ . Business as usual, then. 

 

Phil crouched down and cocked his head to peer under the stage. From about two feet back under the sturdy overhang, Clint grinned at him from a shadowy depression that had the air of an illicit tunnel. “What on earth are you doing?” Phil asked him. Knowing Clint, though, the answer could be anything from simply hiding from the reporters to something involving a new feud with the Mole Man. Phil narrowed his eyes. “Are you starting shit with any underground societies? Because if you are, I refuse to be involved. I can’t handle your public image if you’re going to drag me through literal mud to do it.”

 

Clint’s grin went wider, and like always, Phil’s stomach flipped. Damn it. 

 

“Bruce dug the tunnel last time he was planet-side,” Clint said, oblivious as ever to the effect his smile had on any being with an inclination toward attraction to human men. Planet-side indeed; Phil’d personally seen Clint turn heads at the Knowhere spaceport, and the company then had included Gamora, Star Lord,  _ and _ Captain America.  But Clint was still talking. “Said he wanted a quick escape, and what’s the point of being bonded to Earth if you’re not going to do anything with it?” 

 

“I couldn’t imagine,” Phil said, and in fact he couldn’t. The Avengers trended toward being Certified Magicians, though Phil himself wasn’t—he hadn’t an iota of magical ability anywhere in his being, though he made up for it by being ruthlessly efficient at just about everything else. 

 

“Come on,” Clint said, a distinct note of wheedling in his voice. He lifted one hand out of the hole—it was surprisingly clean for a man who had hypothetically been crawling around a dirt tunnel. “I know you want out, and if you go around that way you have to wade through the vultures.” 

 

Phil hesitated, glancing back up over his shoulder once again at the stage. Tony’d flung an arm around Steve’s shoulders, and Steve looked about half an inch away from Tony-cide. “I shouldn’t…” he said slowly, trying not to let on how tempting the offer to run off truly was. 

 

“C’mon, Phil,” Clint wheedled. “Call it an early Christmas present.”

 

Phil couldn’t imagine a situation where his presence by Clint’s side would be considered a present to the man in question. They were friends--good friends--sure, but-- “Someone needs to rescue Steve.” 

 

A pause, and then a shifting of shadows translated into a carefree shrug. “Your loss, bossman.” Clint’s voice was breezy, unperturbed. “I’ma go explore, it’s like a freaking labyrinth down here.” 

 

“Do not get lost underground,” Phil said sharply. “Fury’d never let me hear the end of it.” 

 

“Sir, yes sir,” Clint said, and loosed a small avalanche of dirt when he attempted a salute. “See you later,” he said with another flash of a grin. “Oh, and you should probably stop that.” He gestured over his head, and Phil glanced up just in time to see Tony and Steve turn to face one another on the stage, fixed smiles on both their faces. The air was starting to whip around them like what happened when Steve got his ire up. 

 

“Shit,” Phil said, and when he looked back again, Clint was gone. 

 

~

 

The Avengers—generally speaking, though Wanda, Thor, Vision, and Stephen were the obvious exceptions, and the younger members of the team were Apprentices and therefore couldn’t use magic except under the supervision of a Certified teacher— honestly didn’t utilize their various magical disciplines in the field as much as one may think. Only a handful of the rest of them (and how their numbers had grown in the short years Phil had been managing them) used a hint of magic in their fighting styles, and even then it was minimal.

Tony had his bespelled armor of course, but the Lightness and Ease of Metal’s Movement were just additions to the already remarkable scientific marvel that was his suit. Steve and Sam hypothetically used Air to guide their shield and wings, but neither man would have been the successful soldier that he was without other skills that far outnumbered their magical ones. Natasha—the rare master of two variants of her Bonded element—used Fire only in dire circumstances, and preferred a gun over Electricity these days, though she hadn’t been so discerning in her past.

 

As for the rest of them, they used a mixture of science, brawn, and wits to fight their battles. The Hulk had no inherent magic of his own, and Bruce never showed his human side in pitched battle, so no Earth was ever moved there. Bucky, made an Excisioner in his days of being the Winter Soldier, hadn’t performed a spell in years, so horrified was he by his Bonded element. Scott was a Smelter like Tony, but had never been formally trained. And besides, there wasn’t much use for spelled lockpicks when he had a shrinking suit at his disposal. T’Challa also was able to command metal, though the claws in his suit were sharpened by his ancestors—he used his Smelting for entertainment and experimentation, rather than battle. 

 

Clint, though—well, Phil didn’t know. For a time he’d assumed—as many did, he was sure—that Clint was Bonded to Air, but he’d overheard a conversation once in which Clint had been complaining to Steve about erratic air currents during a fight throwing off his aim. If he’d been a Zephyr like Steve, he wouldn’t have been having that problem. 

 

For awhile Phil’d settled on Clint being a Smelter, but then Clint didn’t always use metal tips in his arrows, and the ones he did he asked Tony to enchant for him if he needed something unusual. He likewise wasn’t wasn’t a Breaker, as evidenced by his gleeful exploration of Bruce’s tunnels and resulting need to be rescued when he’d inevitably caved one in on himself—a minor accident, though Phil would be lying if he said the news that Hawkeye was buried to his chest in mud hadn’t made him panic for a moment. 

 

It was a negative as well for being a Gaffer (Hope Van Dyne had trapped him temporarily in a mirror in retaliation for a prank war) or a Pyre (Phil had personally watched Clint fail at lighting a fire in the wilderness for over an hour before stepping in with a flint to save the day) or a Polymaker (Clint refused to use plastics in his equipment on a principle he wouldn’t explain to anyone) or even a Siper (there had been an incident that had involved everyone on the team being pelted with miniscule squishy rubber balls, and no, Phil still couldn’t explain where they’d come from). And he wasn’t an Excisioner, because, well—there was a look to a person that used Blood magic, and Clint wasn’t that haunted around the eyes. 

 

Perhaps he wasn’t magically inclined. It didn’t negate his usefulness on the team, nor disqualify him from service. It shouldn’t—didn’t—even really matter. Clint could hit a moving target from an obscene distance, and that was all that counted in the field. 

 

Phil still wanted to know. 

 

~

 

Three weeks after the near-disastrous press conference and two hours after Phil saw Clint, Steve, and Sam off for what was sure to be a last-minute diplomatic clusterfuck to Latveria, Phil finally made it back to his office. He unlocked the door, closed it behind him, and then froze because something—something chirped? And there, situated plainly so that it would be impossible to miss, was a [paper crane](https://www.flickr.com/photos/gio_origami/2260454460/) roosting in the middle of his desk. 

 

The spell was small—barely three inches from its pointed beak to its jaunty tail—and delicate, made with a thin, fine paper that looked watermarked with pale swirls of grey and lavender rather than patterned on the surface. It was also clearly enchanted; it bobbed its tiny head and rustled its paper wings when Phil rounded his desk and sat at his chair. 

 

“Hello,” he said to it, slowly, and a bit unsure. He was used to the quick notes and memos the Folder secretaries occasionally sent his way, but those were usually in the form of airplanes that immediately unfolded when they reached their destination. Luca, one of the newer hires, still used birds to send her notes, but SHIELD produced a lot of paperwork, and planes were faster. 

 

And besides, this wasn’t Luca’s work; the Folder that had made this crane was far more skilled. It probably wasn’t a note, either; the folds in this spell were art, not necessity. 

 

Still: “Do you have a message for me?” Phil asked it, but the bird just twitched its wings at him and then flapped once, twice, before taking off and lazily beginning to circle his ceiling. Phil watched it for a moment before huffing softly in amused resignation and getting back to work. 

 

And a few hours later, when he finally found a missing I23-W form shredded and painstakingly molded into a miniscule nest of pink carbon paper at the joint of his coat hanger, he just sighed, and then smiled and pointed at the crane nestled innocently in the wreckage. “That’s the only one,” he said, utterly failing to be stern. “Ask. If you want more paper, I will get you some. But you can’t use forms.”

The crane cocked its head at him, and then lifted a wing and tucked itself away. “Good bird,” Phil murmured. He still wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve a gift like this, but he wasn’t going to complain. 

 

~

 

“That’s a fucking fancy bird you’ve got there,” Jasper said the second Phil walked into his own office. Phil glared at him, and Jasper, bedecked in a sparkly sequined Santa Hat that mostly covered the scarring on his head, grinned back. 

 

“Your feet are on my desk. And get out of my chair, you ingrate.” 

 

Jasper’s grin turned smirkish, but he lowered his legs obligingly. He was stiff and moved with a kind of slowness that was shaping up to be his reality for the rest of his life, but almost two years of physical therapy and psych sessions had done literal wonders. While he still had his bad days, he was almost back to the man Phil had gone through basic with. Jasper would probably always carry the weight of what he’d been forced to do while under deep cover in Hydra—god knows he had the physical scars to show it—but he was getting better every day. 

 

“I didn’t know you knew any Folders,” Jasper said, settling heavily onto the couch that lined one wall of Phil’s office and inclining his head toward the crane, who was clinging upside down by its paper claws to Phil’s overhead light fixture. Phil glanced up at it; it chirped at him in return, a rustling sort of clicking that probably involved Folds too delicate to imagine. Paper didn’t inherently make noise of its own, after all. 

 

“I don’t,” Phil said after a moment. “Know any Folders, that is. She just showed up in my office the other day. No idea who sent her, or who made her, but she’s something else, isn’t she?” 

 

Jasper raised an eyebrow. “No one’s gonna go through the trouble for a Fold like that if they don’t know you, Coulson. Seriously, though—you have to have some kind of guess.” 

 

Phil just shrugged, and then raised his arm. The crane immediately let go of the light and dropped, spreading its delicate wings to slow its fall. It landed on Phil’s cuff and nuzzled up against his thumb for a minute before carefully making its way up his sleeve to his shoulder, where it swung around to face Jasper. “I don’t think she likes you, Jaz,” Phil observed dryly. The crane leaned forward, opened its beak, and let out a low, papery caw in Jasper’s direction. 

 

“Dios mío,” Jasper said, and clutched his chest in dramatic shock. “Whatever will I do?” 

 

Phil huffed in amusement, and then looked at the crane on his shoulder. “He’s nice, really. Sarcastic, but who in my life isn’t?” The crane looked at him steadily for a long moment, but then spread its wings and took off, gliding in lazy spiral that ended on top of Jasper’s head, directly on the sparkling fake fur that lined the bottom of the hat. It patted him with the underside of its beak, and then nestled in. 

 

“If you give me a paper cut,” Jasper warned with very little heat, and then leveled a glare in Phil’s direction. “You better not be taking my picture.” 

 

Phil raised his eyebrows innocently as he lined up the shot with his Starkphone. “What picture?” His phone made a shutter noise as he captured the scene—Jasper glowering on his couch, one hand wrapped threateningly around his cane, topped with a flapping paper bird. Perfect. 

 

“Asshole,” Jasper groused. 

 

Phil hmm’ed in agreement. “So, why are you haunting my office?” 

 

“Ugh,” Jasper rolled his eyes, and then launched into a diatribe about ‘ _range certification_ ’ and ‘ _treadmills_ ,’ and ‘ _inclement weather protocols_ ’ and he was a senior agent, dammit, he should be able to sit on the bridge of a helicarrrier and put his damn feet up. 

 

Phil nodded along sympathetically, and let Jaz’s words wash over him. 

 

~

 

It was Christmas day, and Phil shouldn’t be at the office. He was, regardless, because Clint and Steve and Sam had arrived home three hours ago, soot-streaked and mildly bloodied, all of them grinning like idiots and shouting happily at each other on their way to medical. And so here Phil sat, fretting where he shouldn’t be, and tried for about the fortieth time to tell himself to go home. 

 

A knock on his door startled him out of his funk, and from her perch on the coat rack, the crane cooed soothingly at him, shuffling calmly and tilting her head toward the door before rising and swooping into a wide spiraling glide around Phil’s head. 

 

“Come in,” he said distantly, his eyes on the crane. He’d become more savvy at deciphering her moods over the past week and a half since she’d shown up, and if he wasn’t mistaken, those were happy loops she was making. 

 

“You like her?” Clint asked, and Phil startled slightly, looking up at the man hovering in the doorway of his office. Clint was clearly fresh out of medical, with his left leg wrapped in a walking cast and a black eye that had some truly epic proportions, and was—blushing, just a tinge of pink dusking the cheekbone not already purple and yellow. He had his hands clasped tight around the supports on his crutches, his lower lip caught between his teeth. 

 

“I—” Phil started, but then registered where Clint was looking, what he was looking at. The crane—dubbed ‘Beaktrice’ last week by a mildly-pecked Nick Fury—cooed again and flapped toward Clint, circling him once before returning to her Phil-centric spiral. She clicked out a happy sounding little twitter and spread her wings wide, executing a little flip, the show-off. The corner of Clint’s mouth twitched up in a stifled smile, and when he looked back to Phil, his blush deepened. 

 

“It was you,” Phil breathed, realization dawning. “You Folded her. I didn’t know who it was.” 

 

“Kind of a useless skill, paper,” Clint said, one corner of his mouth turning down unhappily. “Trick convinced me to Bond to it when I was too young to really even think about it, you know? You can, um, pick pockets easy as a Folder.” 

 

“It’s not useless at all,” Phil said quickly. “It’s--” he swallowed, stopping himself. “She’s beautiful.”

 

Clint’s face creased in a pleased smile, and he ducked his head. “Thanks. I mean, um.” He cleared his throat and then barreled out, “I left her ‘cause we didn’t know if we’d be back by Christmas and all, but then I broke my leg and Doom’s an asshole, and Sam said that he could get us back in time anyway and Steve might’ve punched a couple Doombots, so I guess I didn’t need to make sure you had her, but I wanted to get you something, you know, and it’s not like I  _ knew _ exactly when we’d be back, but I figured earlier is better than not, and so. Um. Yeah.” 

 

Phil took half a moment to parse the verbal barrage, and then nodded, smiling widely. “Thanks, Clint. I love her.” He reached out his hand, and Beaktrice stopped her antics in favor of fluttering over to his outstretched arm. “Nick named her Beaktrice and she’s having an affair with Jaz.” 

 

“What a traitor,” Clint said good-naturedly, and limped into the room, aiming for the couch. Phil was up in an instant, Beaktrice perched on his shoulder, and grabbed a loose hold of Clint’s arm, guiding him carefully to sit down and following after. 

 

“It’s a bad break, then?” he asked, though the way Clint was moving showed him well enough. 

 

Clint shrugged. “I’ve had worse. Remember--”

 

“Nome, yes.” Phil said, nodding. He leaned back against the couch cushions and chuckled. “I’ve still never seen such an idiot move on a snowmobile.” 

 

“There was a dog,” Clint argued, a grin spreading on his face. “You sayin’ I should’ve hit a dog, Coulson? Because I know at least a dozen Peruvian strays that would say otherwise, you gigantic softie.” 

 

Phil laughed. “Agent Singh loves her pack and you know it.” 

 

“Speaking of packs--” Clint started, but Phil waved him off. 

 

“It’s Christmas. I’m not thinking about next month’s idiocy. Let’s just get through today, first.” 

 

Clint’s grin widened. “Aw, Coulson, no--now you’ve gone and jinxed it. Loki’s gonna--”

 

“He better not,” Phil interrupted, fixing Clint with a mock-serious look. 

 

Clint bit his lip and smirked. “Well then, Magneto’ll--”

 

“Be festive and share a quiet Hanukkah with the Professor?” Phil teased. 

 

Clint glanced to the ceiling, contemplative. “Maybe, just maybe, if those two crazy kids can get their heads on straight…” 

 

Phil broke down any facade of seriousness and pressed his hands against his eyes, laughing and leaning back into the couch further. On his shoulder, Beaktrice squawked at being jostled and took flight again, grabbing hold of the overhead light fixture with her paper talons and hanging upside down, chiding them both with a series of softly reprimanding papery tweets. 

 

Pulling his hands away from his face, Phil looked up at her. “She’s really just outstandingly perfect, Clint. Why don’t you Fold more often? You’re clearly extremely talented.”

 

Next to him, Clint huffed and shuffled a little, one hand coming up to rub sheepishly at the back of his neck. “I dunno. It’s not--like, everyone else I know who uses Magic uses it for a purpose. Paper’s just not…” he shrugged. “Useful.” 

 

“There’s use in beauty,” Phil murmured, his eyes still on the paper crane. “After all, that’s one of the things this time of year is supposedly about, isn’t it? Much as we miss it with our lives, chaotic as they are--it’s still there. Reminds us what we’re fighting for.” 

 

Clint’s silent by his side, and after a moment, Phil looked over at him. He was staring hard at Phil’s face, and so Phil opened his mouth to ask-- _ what _ \--but Clint cut him off, leaning in and resting a hand gently on his shoulder. 

 

“You got that from my Paper?” he asked, his voice low. Phil nodded, and Clint swallowed, his eyes darting down and then back up, suddenly glistening. He took a breath. “I--thanks. I don’t--I don’t Fold often. It means, um.” The blush was returning, making its slow way across Clint’s cheeks. “I’m glad you like her.” He made to pull away, but Phil, suddenly brave, reached up and caught his hand before it could disappear, brought it down and held it loosely between the two of them. 

 

He thought of the care that went into the making of the crane, the vulnerability that Clint showed by giving her to him. He thought of offers of meals extended, of the hikes they’d taken together, the way when one of them landed in the hospital, how the other would fret. He thought of laughter and quiet touches, of shared smiles and inside jokes, and understanding coalesced in a single, shining moment.   

 

“I love her,” he said softly. “But there is very little about you that I don’t.” 

 

Clint’s mouth dropped open slightly; he was staring down at their clasped hands. “Phil,” he said, sounding strangled. “Are you serious?” 

 

In for a penny, Phil thought wildly. And so he swallowed hard and nodded firmly. “As serious as I’ve ever been.” 

 

Clint looked up at him, blue eyes shining. “I have waited, like, a decade for you to notice me.” 

 

Phil smiled ruefully. “I’ve been noticing you forever. But I didn’t think--I mean, what could I offer you?” 

 

“You, you self-deprecating…” Clint said, but then used their clasped hands to pull Phil closer. “Phil, I am--I fucking love you.” 

 

Phil paused, and then: “If you kissed me,” he said carefully, watching the way Clint’s pulse jumped in his neck at the words, “it would quite possibly be the best thing to have ever happened to me.” 

 

Clint raised an eyebrow, but his grip on Phil’s hand tightened, and he swayed even closer. “Better than--”

 

“It would not compare,” Phil said softly, shifting to face Clint more fully, finally reaching out, too. “It’s--Clint, I can’t even tell you--” 

 

“You didn’t even know what I was gonna say,” Clint muttered, his eyes flicking down to Phil’s mouth. 

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Phil told him. He studied Clint’s face--the smatter of freckles across a nose that had been broken too many times to ever heal quite right, the black eye, the scar along his right temple-- “It’s you, so it doesn’t matter.” 

 

Clint smiled wide. “I shoulda made you a bird forever ago, if this is what it took to for you to tell me I’m--” 

 

“Clint,” Phil said, exasperated. “ _ Kiss me _ .” Above them, Beaktrice trilled out a pleased squawk, and they both looked up. 

 

“Okay, okay,” Clint said, and when Phil looked back down at him, he was there, his lips on Phil’s, his hand carding softly through Phil’s hair. “Impatient, the lot of you,” Clint murmured into his mouth. “I’ve been waiting long enough, kill me if I wanna savor it a minute?”

 

Phil felt a flush rise and kissed back, pressing Clint backward on the couch so they were leaning up against one of the armrests. It was gentle, exploratory, and after a few long minutes had passed, he pulled away slightly, out of breath and already feeling disheveled. 

 

Clint grinned up at him. “Happy Christmas, Phil.” 

 

Happy Christmas, indeed. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If you want to look at more pretty paper folds that inspired Beaktrice, check 'em out [here](http://www.flickriver.com/photos/gio_origami/random/). 
> 
> Happy happy! I hope your holidays are stress-free and celebrated (or not) as you wish.


End file.
